I started writing a letter to Jesus yesterday. Mostly to tell him that I think we could have been friends, that I'm glad he was born, and that my dad was a carpenter so hey! we may have had something in common after all. But mostly to say that while I'm glad he was born and all, I'm pretty thrilled that that whole celebration is over. Because I'm fucking exhausted.
(Is it blasphemous to say "Jesus" and "fuck" in the same paragraph? I guess it's probably blasphemous to write to Jesus to tell him you're glad his birthday is over in the first place. Fuck again).
Really, though. I just wanted to say that the holidays are great. The holidays are a magical time full of love and familial irritation, Christmas miracles and long return lines. Christmas is knowing that everyone loves you enough to not know the first thing about what you like. New Years Eve is like a fairytale where your lost shoe usually procures a nasty hangover in the morning instead of a shining Prince (actually there may be a prince, but considering that hangover he's probably not "shining"). The holidays are one of my favorite times of year but after this one have nailed a coffin in the much greater and more pressing concern I have for my well-being right now.
I'm beginning to suspect that I'm aging rapidly.
Read the signs: my work has a standard discount for both a) those that spend over a certain amount of money at a time and b) the elderly folk we as a society have labeled "seniors." While I will always adhere to the first clause, I WILL NOT give a customer a senior discount unless they inform me of their eligibility. Ever. Trust me, I've witnessed that scene go south in far too grand a way to ever make an educated guess. I refuse to be yelled at for thinking a 50-year old with two grandkids behind her is 65. Sorry, I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M YOUNG AND IGNORANT.
So, a few weeks ago as I was ringing a [suspected senior] customer up I gave her our standard discount. The reason being that she had spent over $100. When she asked if I gave her the senior discount, I said yes. I did not elaborate that no, I did not think she looked like a senior. I did not attempt to make her feel better about her physique or minimally-wrinkled skin by explaining that everyone that spends that amount of money will be rewarded with a few bucks off, not just the older folks. I did not attempt to assuage her ego with the truth because you know what? I didn't care. And talking more than I had felt way too exhausting. So I let the silence hang.
That very scene is what I imagine old age to be. The don't-give-a-shit that so many older women and men have that allows them to get away with telling me that "you'll regret those tattoos when you're older" without a flinch. The I-can-say-what-I-want that comes with enduring kids that don't give a shit and grandkids that care too much that cuts people in line at the Jewel. The seemingly unwitting but you KNOW they want you to think that so they can steel the last pound of cheese that comes with old age. That kind of brain-work. In that very moment, I had become the women standing before me. MY BRAIN BECAME OLD.
That, coupled with the fact that all I could think about all day today was coming home to a hot shower and adequate slippers and a fuzzy blanket, in hopes of going to bed by 9; plus my not-so-quiet rage with weather under 64 degrees and fondness of knitting needles leads me to the only valid conclusion: that this year I will turn 80.
Maybe I'm just wise enough to realize that the holidays are not just about ME anymore, and there's a lot more to being an adult than just trying to fall asleep all night on Christmas Eve because HOLY SHIT PRESENTS; or that when you don't buy your own gloves and you get frost bite on your fingers you have to drive your own ass to Urgent Care.
I'm not feeling cynical. I'm really not. I'm just reveling in the fact that writing this post is literally the only thing I will do all night, besides continue to watch the second season of Dexter (for the second time...damn you, un-free cable and internet!) and heat up some tomato soup though (that seems like way too much effort right now). I'm just marveling in all that it takes to support yourself; that The Mother did all this shit I'm doing now with two bratty kids on her ass all the time; that for the first time since I've moved back out I haven't packed my evening with things to do and it's GLORIOUS. I'm just realizing why old ladies actually do have the right to say whatever the hell they want. They paid their dues. I think maybe I'll embrace the brief foray into that particular personality trait for a while. And hope to Jesus it doesn't stick for at least another few decades.
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
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Friday, November 23, 2012
Thanksgiving Massacre
Oh shit, was yesterday Thanksgiving? Did anybody eat any turkey and stuff? And if so, did you take a picture of it so that I don't feel like I missed anything? Can you post it on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, too? Can you also talk about how delicious it was? What? You already did? Oh yeah. I HAVEN'T MISSED ANY OF YOUR TURKEY-GRAVY-STUFFING-BOOZE-VEGAN THANKS/FRIENDSGIVINGS. I HAVEN'T BEEN LIVING UNDER A ROCK.
Just kidding, guys. You know I love seeing how much more awesome your holiday was than mine. Even though mine did comprise of 13 amazing people, 5 dogs, 3 pies that you wish you could have had singing in your mouth and 2 badass games of charades. One of which included phrases such as "the artist formerly known as prince" and "genocide" (you can blame my brother for those). I acted the SHIT out of genocide. Thanks for having my back, Grandma.
Ever since I stopped going out of town for Thanksgiving -- or maybe since I dropped out of school and have a job that doesn't call for four-day turkey weekends -- the holiday seems to be shrinking. It's become confined to the one day, in the middle of the week, that flies by as quickly as it came barreling down at us. It's like a brief, violent firework that signals the first of 40 days of bloating, booze and being broke (TAKE THAT, alliteration).
That's not to say that I don't love the holidays. I LOVE the holidays. But sometimes, in the middle of the days that actually constitute them, I find myself slipping back to other time zones. On occasion I hear myself speak, or see from above how I sneak into the background to chop potatoes, or find myself asking over and over again what I can do to help, that I remember my little-kid self. I find myself occupying a mold I created a long time ago within my family unit: one of peace keeper, one of Perfect Eldest, one of Thou Whom Has Thine Shit Together. And sometimes when I see myself in this light again I want to whack that saucepan full of cranberry sauce over my head and shout WAKE UP, MOTHERFUCKER!
Because look, Here's The Thing:
The holidays are that perfect time of the year -- regardless of your current or past relationship with your family -- that bring up all the years that have come between Birth and Now. There's something about being with all the people that have seen you through that life -- not to mention helped shape it -- that pulls out all the best and worst in ourselves. It's hard to take a step back from everything and remember what you are at the current moment when there are so many reminders of what you've been before it swimming around you.
I absolutely adore my family. I couldn't ask for a group of more loving, supportive, endearingly obnoxious or thrillingly loony people than what I've got. They have worked infinitely hard at being healthy, strong and mutually supportive. But there's no denying that with every family comes baggage, and the holidays are the perfect time for all of it to come tumbling out and trip you down the stairs.
The Mother and I used to get into explosive arguments nearly every single holiday when I was growing up. After I started taking a look at myself and the person I had grown into, it was easier to see where that dynamic came from. We were both fulfilling rolls that we had created and we were both working our ways out of them. It's easy to see after you've done some digging where your patterns are. And after you've learned to see those paths more clearly, it's a hell of a lot easier to change their direction.
Of course we all grow into different people after we've moved out of our parents' houses, formed our own identities, claimed our unique lives. But if you find yourself becoming lost in it around this time of year, just remember that it's a collective thing. It's the ground zero of all the poignant moments in our lives that gets sticky when somebody spills the cranberry sauce. And it's the strength needed to say "yes," "no," or "maybe."
Just kidding, guys. You know I love seeing how much more awesome your holiday was than mine. Even though mine did comprise of 13 amazing people, 5 dogs, 3 pies that you wish you could have had singing in your mouth and 2 badass games of charades. One of which included phrases such as "the artist formerly known as prince" and "genocide" (you can blame my brother for those). I acted the SHIT out of genocide. Thanks for having my back, Grandma.
Ever since I stopped going out of town for Thanksgiving -- or maybe since I dropped out of school and have a job that doesn't call for four-day turkey weekends -- the holiday seems to be shrinking. It's become confined to the one day, in the middle of the week, that flies by as quickly as it came barreling down at us. It's like a brief, violent firework that signals the first of 40 days of bloating, booze and being broke (TAKE THAT, alliteration).
That's not to say that I don't love the holidays. I LOVE the holidays. But sometimes, in the middle of the days that actually constitute them, I find myself slipping back to other time zones. On occasion I hear myself speak, or see from above how I sneak into the background to chop potatoes, or find myself asking over and over again what I can do to help, that I remember my little-kid self. I find myself occupying a mold I created a long time ago within my family unit: one of peace keeper, one of Perfect Eldest, one of Thou Whom Has Thine Shit Together. And sometimes when I see myself in this light again I want to whack that saucepan full of cranberry sauce over my head and shout WAKE UP, MOTHERFUCKER!
Because look, Here's The Thing:
The holidays are that perfect time of the year -- regardless of your current or past relationship with your family -- that bring up all the years that have come between Birth and Now. There's something about being with all the people that have seen you through that life -- not to mention helped shape it -- that pulls out all the best and worst in ourselves. It's hard to take a step back from everything and remember what you are at the current moment when there are so many reminders of what you've been before it swimming around you.
I absolutely adore my family. I couldn't ask for a group of more loving, supportive, endearingly obnoxious or thrillingly loony people than what I've got. They have worked infinitely hard at being healthy, strong and mutually supportive. But there's no denying that with every family comes baggage, and the holidays are the perfect time for all of it to come tumbling out and trip you down the stairs.
The Mother and I used to get into explosive arguments nearly every single holiday when I was growing up. After I started taking a look at myself and the person I had grown into, it was easier to see where that dynamic came from. We were both fulfilling rolls that we had created and we were both working our ways out of them. It's easy to see after you've done some digging where your patterns are. And after you've learned to see those paths more clearly, it's a hell of a lot easier to change their direction.
Of course we all grow into different people after we've moved out of our parents' houses, formed our own identities, claimed our unique lives. But if you find yourself becoming lost in it around this time of year, just remember that it's a collective thing. It's the ground zero of all the poignant moments in our lives that gets sticky when somebody spills the cranberry sauce. And it's the strength needed to say "yes," "no," or "maybe."
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